if at first you don't succeed
by fallen-chan
Summary: ten thousand failures come before peace. he is still young, still learning of mistakes.


**Title: **if at first you don't succeed

**Summary:** ten thousand failures come before peace (he is still young, still learning of mistakes).

* * *

He is six when he sees them for the first time, wisps of white against the grey-black of the shadows cast by the fluttering curtains over the window. It is summer outside and the dying sun sets the winding river on fire in the far distance, where land meets sky; they are gone when he blinks, but the wood of the table chills his fingers and no steam rises from the cup of tea sitting on the counter. He shoves the incident to the back of his mind in favor of focusing on the textbook before him (_there is nothing to be gained from foolish daydreams_) but he still stands to close the window before splashing his face with water in the bathroom (_the wind whispers against the cloth and glass and somewhere in the noise is a name that sparks his interest, burrows into the depths of his mind and refuses to leave_). He sleeps restlessly that night, waking in a cold sweat with the sheets tangled about his legs, fingers groping under the pillow for half-remembered objects; his father checks on him once and he almost calls the man "mother" before he catches his mistake, swallowing the word in a cough instead. He blames the stifling heat that has gripped the county for several days now and the man trusts his judgment. (_The thought crosses his mind, unbidden; unwavering trust does little more than send the invitation for death_.)

When he finally sleeps, visions of a blurred sky and the wreckage of a field dance in a procession before his eyelids.

~.~.~

On his seventh birthday he wakes early in the morning, when the only hint of sunlight comes from the red glow on the horizon. From his window, the distant glimmer of the river winding next to the road takes on a reddish tint; he thinks, idly, that it looks like blood. The thought disappears as quickly as it comes but he still steps away from the window hastily, crawling back into bed. The night light plugged into an outlet on the far side of the wall flickers once, twice, three times before going out; the covers are a heavy weight pressing against his chest and he rolls over, burying his face in the pillow until it becomes hard to breath. His room feels like a prison, too dark, too quiet.

When his mother walks into the kitchen, intent on cooking a special breakfast for his birthday, she finds him dozing at the kitchen table, head pillowed on the newspaper. She smiles when his nose wrinkles in his sleep, backing out to grab a blanket and pillow from the living room. The newspaper rips in her hand when she tries to ease it out from under his head and she blinks curiously at the rough sketches in the margins, tiny fans and small thin creatures that she thinks are supposed to be some kind of animal. The piece of newspaper is put aside and she covers him with the fuzzy blanket, quietly going about preparing breakfast. It was odd, she thinks as she chops some green onions. The neat little scribbles next to those sketches - and oh, her son was just so talented, she couldn't wait to show her husband - almost looked like one of those Asian languages, with their complicated symbols...

When he wakes up, she presents him with a plateful of his favorite foods and a bright "happy birthday sweetie." He notices the scrap of newspaper out of the corner of his eyes and he swallows a mouthful of suddenly-tasteless food, wondering why the thought of weasels reminds him of rivers and stolen kisses and betrayal.

~.~.~

He comes home from school one day, backpack slung over a shoulder, and is immediately accosted by his mother, who sets his backpack against a wall before guiding him into the living room. Her hands are warm, squeezing his shoulders as they walk through the doorway. "Your new little brother" his father says - and the rest of the explanation is drowned out by the faint roaring in his ears and a sense of déjàvu that refuses to disappear for the rest of the day. He _does_ hear that his new brother is only five, five years younger than him, the now-orphaned son of an old family friend. He doesn't need his mother's prompting to cross the short distance between the two of them; he crouches down and offers the boy a friendly smile, holding out his hand.

He curls up in bed later that night, watching the moonlight through the curtains, and idly wonders why he vaguely feels as though everything has been thrown out-of-order.

One week later, a new family moves into the house across the street. Their son is only a few years older than him, his mother explains as they cross the street to go greet the new neighbors. A real smile tugs on his lips when the door opens and a tall boy with a head of curly black hair answers, calling over his shoulder for his parents. When the other boy holds out his hand, he shakes it and tries to ignore the thrill of _something_ that goes up his spine. He lets himself be drawn away from the adults, into a conversation that has him laughing quietly,

At the annual neighborhood barbeque – just a few weeks later - his parents tell the new neighbors, a faintly bemused tone in their voices, that they have never seen him make friends so quickly before. They laugh when he steps in the way of a water balloon aimed at his little brother, a disgruntled look on his face as he swipes wet bangs from his eyes. A boy with curly black hair hands him a towel and grins easily, making an exaggerated sweeping bow before ruffling his hair.

When the new neighbor teases him about being so protective of his little brother, he glowers until the older boy stops, good mood banished. His dreams that night are full of hazy images of slaughter and a little boy who drowns in his anger. He wakes with his brother's name spilling from his mouth and the vague remembrance of a man who died with a smile on his lips.

~.~.~

Three years later, he is walking down the sidewalk, plastic bag in one hand, the other brushing against his best friend's hand. It is particularly hot out today, temperature in the upper 90s, and the other boy is wearing shorts and a tank-top, sucking on a popsicle and chattering away about something only vaguely interesting. He waves goodbye to his friend once they reach entrance to the neighborhood, glancing both ways before crossing the street.

He is half-way across when a black car comes screeching around the corner, swerving to avoid the sidewalk. The plastic bag drops from numb fingers and glass crunches beneath his sneakers when he takes a step back, his friend's panicked shouts dimly registering in his mind.

He runs for the sidewalk, gritting his teeth when he realizes with depressing clarity that he won't make it in time, and thinks there must have been a horrible mistake (_because he is not supposed to die first_).

The blood in his mouth tastes (_once again_) of bitter failure.

~.~.~

He wakes from a terrible nightmare with a scream spilling from his mouth and stares at small chubby arms waving above his head. His scream becomes a wail.


End file.
